


Queen

by Ishtar12



Series: Know Thy Worth [2]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Derek Uses His Words, M/M, Magic Stiles, Sheriff's name is John, Stiles Feels, Stilinski Family Feels, emissary stiles, pack war sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10026896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishtar12/pseuds/Ishtar12
Summary: His Dad's been snatched by a rival pack. His first kiss with Derek anchored his magic, sealed him to the pack, and maybe even Derek himself.  Stiles has no idea what's going on in his life right now, and less time to figure it out.Sequel to Anchor, but can be read alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to dedicate this to the folks who commented on the first part, Anchor. You guys gave me the warm fuzzies and I love you all. 
> 
> Now, if only I could figure out how to make AO3 do, like, italics and crap. Ugh. tech-savvy I am not. 
> 
> Also, these are not my monkeys, though I with they were, and I make no profit, unless my own tears count.

Leather slid under Stiles' palms as he fishtailed the Jeep into the clearing. His headlights sliced through the night, showcasing the barren expanse of grass. In the passenger seat, Derek braced his hands against the dash, displeasure in the twist of his mouth. 

“And the point of that was…?” Derek grumbled when the Jeep slid to a stop.

“Shut up, Sourwolf.” He flapped his hands around to indicate the Jeep. “This doesn’t even register on the theatrics scale that is Derek Hale.” 

Stiles took a deep breath and ignored Derek’s grunt. Tongue shoved into the pocket of his cheek, he squinted out the windshield. “Something’s wrong.” The little hairs on the back of his neck stood tall as unpleasant shocks trailed up his arms.

Derek shot him an incredulous look. Wordless, he splayed a hand out, as though unveiling their surroundings.

“No, asshole, I mean, I can feel -” pressure at the base of his skull cut him off.

Beyond the windshield, on the opposite side of the circular meadow, orange sparked. Fire spread in a flash, flames licking higher and higher into the sky as it completed its circuit. He jerked back, the sudden light stabbing into his eyes.

“So, hey, fire. Awesome,” Stiles mumbled into his tingle-free hands. “Good to know that’s still everyone’s favorite. But they get props for creativity, I guess? I mean, that’s definitely the first uh. Fire tornado? Thing? That I’ve ever seen.” He dropped his hands, blinking away the after image. “I could have done with a more conventional hello, though. Rude.” 

Stiles ignored Derek’s sigh, prattling on as he twisted in his seat to dig out his baseball bat. “I mean, does everyone assume we’re- okay, you’re- so traumatized that we’ll roll right over?” He hauled his bat into the front of the Jeep with a triumphant ha! “Inquiring minds want to know, dude.”

“Really, Stiles?”

“You know, normal kids come out here to like, drink. Or get frisky. Reenact twilight, who the hell knows. Me? I’m here for a freaking supernatural fight club. Because werewolves and magic are a thing. This is my life, now. So yes, Derek, really.”

Derek shook his head, hand on the door handle. “Only three heartbeats. The rest of the pack must be far enough out of range that I can’t hear them.” He slid a glance towards Stiles. “Remember the plan?”

Stiles scoffed. “You know what, no, I forgot in the ten minutes since we made it.” Anxiety made his voice squeaky and he scowled.

In a vain effort to hide his voice’s betrayal, Stiles shot off a rapid, “Stall. Rescue Dad. Run off Douche-bro McJerkface’s pack. Don’t friggin’ die.” He rolled his neck until it popped, tongue tracing his teeth. “Solid, straightforward plan. In that it’s not actually a plan.”

When Derek seemed to hesitate, Stiles clenched his jaw. He dropped his head down on the steering wheel and hunched his shoulders around his ears. “I’ll be fine, dude. I mean, yeah, their Emissary's, y’know, stronger, had actual training and might want to wear my skin as a coat. I can totally handle those odds. Yup.”

Fingertips brushed the tense bolt of his jaw. “I know you can,” Derek murmured. “Doesn’t mean I can’t worry.” Rather than give Stiles a chance to respond, Derek slid out of the Jeep. 

Stiles blinked after him for a moment. “What the hell is going on in my life.”

Shaking himself, Stiles followed, swinging his long body free of the cramped Jeep. Derek lounged against the Jeep’s grill, arms crossed over his chest. Even in only a pair of ratty, gray sweatpants, Derek could be smoldering for some unseen camera.

The frayed red hoodie and jeans Stiles had on didn’t exactly measure up.

Stiles snorted, settling the bat on one shoulder as he shut the door. Derek always looked like he should be modeling. Glowering off into the distance wasn’t about to hurt that image. If anything, it highlighted the hard cut of his jaw and the bulge of his biceps. Not that Derek’s tendency to loom had done them any favors before now.

And Stiles was stalling on the stalling part of the plan. 

Plastering a smirk on his face, Stiles sauntered forward. No one pulled off insolence like a cop’s kid - and no one knew better than a cop’s kid how impudence could grate the nerves. Possibly just John’s kid. Or Stiles in general. Whatever, Stiles had all the confidence in the world that he was good at working people up.

He gave a piercing whistle, slipping the bat behind his head to rest across his shoulders. Once he stood alone, several yards in front of his Alpha, Stiles stopped. He spread his feet, one foot edged ahead of the other to settle his weight better. 

“You wanted me,” he called across the clearing, dangling his hands over either end of the bat. “You got me.” Stiles made a show of peering around the clearing. “So… now’s the part where you give me my Dad back.”

No one answered, and Stiles turned to Derek, arching his brows and wiggling his fingers over the bat. Derek arched his own in return, and gave a short jerk of his chin. Stiles rolled his eyes and turned back towards his silent audience. 

“Here, wolfy, wolfy.” he sang. It echoed back and Stiles sighed into the empty night. He tilted his head back. Watching the stars had to be less awkward than staring at a tree, he figured. “Y’know, it’s rude to invite people out and then ignore them. Is it stage fright? No worries, dude.” He dropped his head, and turned in a slow circle. Dad had to be somewhere nearby. “It happens to the best. I mean, I’m judging, I am absolutely judging you right now.” 

Stiles waited another moment, scowling into the dark. “How’s about you give us the Sheriff and we’ll let you get back to your regularly scheduled… what, skulking? We can chalk this up to Derek’s Resting Murderface, yeah? He does it, like, really well.” 

“You think you’re cute, don’t ya, kid?” The voice was male, rough, and full of amused irritation.

“I try,” Stiles chirped, his smile bright and obnoxious. He caught movement beyond the first line of trees. One man stepped into the light, his almond eyes an angry, red ember in his swarthy face. Another presence shivered along Stiles’ spine, cold and wet, somewhere off to the side. He rolled his wrists along the bat in a fruitless effort to relieve the prickling slipping up his arms.

“Nice of you to bring Hale along, Stiles. We thought you’d bring a different date for tonight.” The man shrugged, one hand extended in a lazy, rolling gesture. “I guess we’ll improvise.”

Low, mocking laughter came from behind Stiles. For a moment, Stiles mourned his inability to turn around. Derek in full-on peacock was a rare, fantastic sight. One he couldn’t enjoy without taking his eyes off the newcomer. Not exactly a smart move, since the rival Alpha could snap Stiles in half even without his supernatural talents. The undershirt did exactly nothing to hide how cut the guy was. Stiles scrunched his nose up and shook his head. Meatheads and their overkill.

Derek’s voice, rife with derision, rolled across the clearing. “Was I not meant to take your attacks on my pack-mates personally?”

Stiles didn’t bother holding back his snort. He spared a moment to wonder if Lydia would help him to determine the root cause of supernatural related dramatics. Nature versus nurture. For science. 

“Pretty obvious you didn’t do your homework,” Derek continued. He sounded too similar to Peter for comfort. “Stiles never does what anyone expects. He doesn’t like other people’s rules.” Something cracked - most likely Derek’s vertebrae, since it seemed to be a tic. 

The Cole Alpha wandered close enough for the fire to highlight the cleft in his chin. He sneered, thin lips pulled back over too sharp teeth. “I assumed you had better things to do with your time than babysit. You’ve kept him as far from your pack as you can, won’t let the little human learn how to be useful.”

The Alpha tilted his head, eyes still locked on Stiles as he said, “Or is that it? Mutt doesn’t want to share even the toys he doesn’t like.” Red eyes slid away from Stiles, settling behind him as the Alpha clucked his tongue. “What would your mother say?”

“She’d probably start by laughing in your fucking face,” Stiles spit, incensed. “Since the only mutt here is you.” Hands fisted around his bat, he cut across whatever retort the Alpha had. “And I’m not anyone’s freaking chew toy.”

“Sure, kid. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I am the Hale Pack Emissary. Derek Hale is my Alpha,” Stiles responded, low and dangerous. “And you’re on my land.” He knew his usually amber eyes bled to a crisp, bright white from the way the meadow grew sharper.

“Ooh, puppy’s got some milk teeth,” came another voice. Derek gave a soft growl as a new man stepped into the light. He was smaller than the Alpha, bald and bland, forgettable. Except for his eyes - which shone a pale, dull white. Against his sallow skin, the eyes looked dead.

The itch in Stiles’ wrists flared, echoed by the stinging bites marching up his spine. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight, “is this whole shtick meant to ramp up the melodrama? I guess you get points for delivery, but overall? Unimpressive. You gunna start threatening to blow my house down next?”

“I don’t think the puppy wants to play with us, Boss.” The Emissary drawled, a twisted smile on his face. Stiles kept an eye on the light spasming around the guy’s curled fingertips.

“Real original,” Stiles said. “Can we get back to the point, please? Which is my Dad, and where the hell he is, for the record.”

“No matter how smart he thinks he is, at the end of the day he’s just another little piggie, Eli.” Red eyes flicked over Stiles’ body. “Though he does look like he’ll taste sweet enough to eat right up.”

Stiles made an outraged noise, jerking his head back as he squinted at them. “Is- is this the part where I tell you I built my house of bricks? I mean, I’m in red. I am a walking set up for a Riding Hood reference. You’re- you’re not even trying. That was awful.” He dropped a hand, pressing the entire conversation aside with a hard sweep.

They ignored him. Instead, the Alpha turned to Derek. “Nothing to add, Hale?”

“My Emissary does just fine on his own, Cole. He doesn’t need help from me.”

Shivers worked up his spine at the easy confidence in Derek’s tone.

Cole smiled. “Show the kid his father, Eli. And try not to drag this out too long. Who knows, if he survives me killing Hale, we’ll get to see how he tastes, after all.”

“You can try,” Stiles and Derek said in unison, their voices hard and unyielding.

Eli gestured, the faint glow around his hands blooming into a hazy gray cloud. Across the clearing, the fire rippled. A seam split straight down the middle, sliding a panel of flames out of the way. Stiles felt the thread of his magic snap, returning his eyes to brown.

In the center, John Stilinski stood, still in his Sheriff’s uniform. 

It was impossible to know who moved first, as each Stilinski lunged forward. Stiles’ throat felt raw with his force of his shout. But the fire slammed back into place, cutting John off from sight. 

Stiles whirled, leveling the bat at Eli one handed. “Let him go,” he ground out, voice quaking in fury. “Get him out of there, you son of a bitch, or I swear to God -!” Derek’s hand closed around his elbow, holding him fast.

“You’ll what? Snap your jaws at me?” Eli grinned, fluttering hands still heavy with magic. 

The fire shifted, catching Stiles’ eye. He jerked his head, trying to keep both Eli and the fire in sight. Flames twisted into thick ropes, weaving over and around each other. When it settled, John stood beneath a dome made of neat squares, each too small for a grown man’s shoulders.

Stiles could see his father through the gaps. He smeared the back of his free hand against his mouth.

“Sally likes him, y’know. She’s got a thing for the strong, silent type. I figure we’ll hold on to him, see how long he lasts.”

This time, when Stiles threw himself forward, Derek caught him around the waist. Stiles opened his mouth, only to still when Derek buried his face behind Stiles’ ear.

“They’re still baiting you,” Derek breathed into Stiles’ skin. “Stop making this so easy for them. You’re smarter than this.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Sure, big guy. Let me go.” He patted at Derek’s arm.

“Cute,” Eli chirped. Over his shoulder he called, “Looks like you were right after all, Boss. Me’n Wyatt owe you what, twenty each?”

A short, sharp burst of laughter jerked Stiles’ head around. “I gotta admit, they moved faster’n I thought they would.” The Cole Alpha grinned. “But it so much more fun for me when you’ve got something to fight for, something to draw on. This’ll be more fun than just a bonded Emissary.” 

The Alpha shifted, his brow going heavy as his claws and teeth emerged. “Definitely going to eat him up now, Hale.”

Derek swore, shoving Stiles as the enemy wolf charged, fangs and claws extended. Stiles went down with a yelp as Derek dropped into a crouch. He sprang up at Cole, tackling him around the torso. Stiles scrambled to his feet as Derek tried to force Cole farther away.

He managed two steps towards them, bat ready, before Eli reminded him of his presence. Pain exploded in Stiles’ upper arm. He cried out, stumbling a few steps back, bat splayed out in front of himself. 

“Leave the big dogs alone, puppy. You get to play with me.”

Stiles bared his teeth. “Seriously? How is that the best you could come up with? Are you actually a comic book villain?”

Rather than respond, Eli snapped both hands towards Stiles. He dropped to the ground to avoid the twin bursts. For a moment, Stiles panicked. Derek cementing his place as Emissary had given him better, natural control. But he hadn’t had time to figure out how any of it worked. What if he couldn’t reach it now? Leaking magic had to be better than this, he thought as he forced himself upright again.

“C’mon kid,” Eli cajoled. “Make it worth my time.” 

“Stiles,” Derek shouted, “Like this!” 

Stiles’ body arched as something shoved its way between his shoulder blades. For an endless second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Phantom fingers slid down his spinal column. Strong tingling sensations trailed in their wake, tightening the muscles around his spine. They punched deeper in, filling the hollow of his ribs. The near-tickle became a wild, throbbing thing. It jumped up his throat, spilling into his mouth like wine. 

He drowned in sensations, a tight loop of home-angry-red-protect and Derek-Derek-Derek. The fingers pulled back, trailing back down the cherry-hot cable before disappearing. Stiles, the not-taste of magic and Alpha stuck in his throat, floundered.

The thick, red line -Stiles’ bond to Derek- flared. Without thought, he wrapped himself around it and dropped. It led into a tangled web, each thread distinct and shining in the darkness. His bonds to his pack.

There, held fast by the shimmering, magical bonds lay an expanse of glittering white. His magic, still and serene.

If he had physical form, he would have buried his hands in his hair. Or tried to kick himself. For so long he’d struggled with control - something the wolves had to master for basic survival. Of course they’d all try to anchor him. It was instinct. Of course it would be too much. He’d let them overwhelm him, knot him in place.

Lydia would have a field day psychoanalyzing that if she knew.

Stiles squeezed himself inside the tangle of wolf magic and fell headfirst into the ocean of his own. It welcomed him, surging up to meet him. The electric spark sank into his bones, sang through every particle of his being.Stillness didn’t suit anything about him.

He let it batter at the bonds holding them prisoner. One by one he shoved them off until they circled his edges instead of binding him. Still connected, but not restricted. Only the steel of Derek’s presence grounded him now. Stiles let out a crow of laughter, and shoved outward until he opened his eyes in the night air. Ghost fire filled his eyes, untamed enough to leave behind a flare as he moved.

The landscape of reality changed. Spots stood out against the pearlescent expanse of Stiles’ mind. Behind him, Derek glowed a warm, comforting scarlet. He was a sense of strength and right and home. The spot twitched and writhed, laced with pain and fury. Derek’s brawl with Cole raged on.

Farther away, the pack registered as drop and splashes of gold. They brimmed with a sense of belonging, family. If he focused, each one was unique, letting him know which pack-mate lived at the heart of every gem. All carried the same sense of determination - they were on their way.

Ugly, dark spots flared- ten figures, non-pack and tasting of ash. The last figure raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Eli stood out, a blight in Stiles’s crystalline web, cold and acrid and wrong, wrong, wrong.

Stiles swung out against the feeling, instinctive. He watched as the bat released a spray of sharp crystal, intent on Eli. 

Eli slammed up a barrier, a delighted smile on his face as Stiles’ projectiles shattered. 

Derek screamed, voice echoing in his ears and from the coil inside him, and Stiles’ grip on his magic vanished. Before he could think, he was running flat out towards the sound and sense of Derek.

Blood poured from between Derek’s fingers. He gasped for air on his knees, pressing down on an ugly wound over the ball of his shoulder, arm limp at his side. Several feet beyond Derek, Cole shook his head, splayed on his hands and knees.

Derek glanced up, locking eyes with Stiles.

Eli collided with Stiles' back, riding him down to the ground. His hands, clenched in Stiles' overshirt, burned. Stiles screamed as Eli’s magic ate away at his shirts, etching his handprints into Stiles’ skin. 

“You can’t help him, kid,” Eli hissed. “He’s gonna die, and it’ll be your fault. Don’t worry. I’ll let you watch, before I burn you from the inside out.”

Derek grit his teeth and rose to his feet. He threw his head back and loosed a roar that shook the trees. Cole barreled into him from the side, taking them both back to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Stiles closed his eyes. He clenched his fingers around the bat and in the dirt, and breathed out. 

Deaton spoke of his spark like a dry, dusty thing. Something old and set in its ways; a creature that slept in the back of the brain, in need of coaxing. Lessons meant rituals and rules, dead languages and predetermined geometric shapes. It meant specific hand gestures, cryptic non-answers and balance and endless, endless patience. 

But Stiles’ magic danced. It lived and breathed, undulated beneath his skin and begged for freedom. Stiles’ magic sparked at his fingertips and tickled at his toes and made him need to move.

It made him wonder how much of his ADD was chemical, and how much of it came from the restlessness of unshaped magic.

Now, the constant jitter under his skin burst free. It hummed through him as it sank into the ground beneath him. Stiles flashed through countless knotted roots, surged up and down sturdy tree trunks. Each blade of grass or lump of rock recognized him and gave themselves over. 

If he was honest, somewhere in the back of his head, he'd believed magic would be like the movies or comic books. Bright, swirling lights and grand, dramatic gestures, shouted incantations and scribbled runes. 

The power burning in his veins wasn’t some slow, lazy thing; he didn’t need fancy finger movements. He was strong, and he was everywhere, and he was unafraid.

Stiles pried his fingers free of the bat and the grass, and reached behind himself. He wrapped his long fingers around Eli’s wrists. With a thought, he shredded the delicate skin under his hands. Eli fell back with a shriek. Stiles wasted no time in surging to his feet.

He shoved his magic out, all but flinging Cole away from Derek. Derek turned towards him, eyebrows high even as he quirked a tiny smile. Stiles closed the distance between them. 

Shaking, he smoothed a hand wreathed in a pearl cloud over Derek’s ravaged shoulder. Derek’s body loosened as the skin knitted itself back together under his touch. His own shoulders ached less.

“Not bad, little witch.” Cole’s voice broke the silence. Derek immediately shoved Stiles back, shifting to shield him with his own body. “Not good enough, but not bad.” Behind Cole, the rest of his pack melted out of the trees - nine wolves in all, yellow eyes blazing.

Stiles closed his eyes, and sought out the yellow-gold cables of his own pack. He wrapped both hands around the jumbled bonds and tugged hard. The earth heard him and rolled, shortening the distance between them. Howls shredded the air as his people closed in. Stiles smiled.

Eli staggered closer to his Alpha. Cole wrapped a hand around the back of the man’s neck and Eli’s eyes flashed. He groaned as the slashes in his arms began to close.

“You done playing with the kid yet?” Cole asked, voice hard as Scott and the rest of the pack tumbled into the meadow. 

Eli nodded, the sick fog of his magic swirling to life around his frame.

“Handle the brats,” Cole snarled towards his betas, eyes trained on Derek. “Hale’s mine.” Bones cracked as he shifted into his more canine Alpha form, a grotesque, misshapen thing on two legs. He roared, spurring his pack into action as he leapt forward.

Stiles’ magic pooled in his palms, unbidden. He surged into the fray a step behind Derek, intent on Eli. 

Derek and Cole came together in a deafening crash beside him as he ran. Deep inside himself, Stiles could feel the rage burning along each pack bond. He ducked and dodged the blasts Eli aimed his way. They whistled as they passed him, slamming into the ground or trees in a shower of debris. One caught a Cole beta in the side. He dropped, screaming.

Power burned in his veins as he pulled his fist back and punched Eli dead in the face. The impact left Stiles whining, hand cradled against his chest. Eli dropped like a stone.

“That,” Stiles gasped, “is for going after my freaking Dad.”

Scott’s voice shrieked in his head, distracting him. Stiles whirled, honing in on where a woman pinned Scott to a tree with her claws. Stiles shouted, slashing out. Five long rips appeared in the woman’s back, and she shrieked. Isaac appeared, fisting his hand in her short hair.

“Stiles!”

The warning came too late. Stiles spun, directly into Eli’s outstretched palm. His nails buried themselves over Stiles’ heart. Beyond him, the battle continued, in a constantly shifting pattern. It occurred to him he’d never bothered to retrieve his bat. The oversight could cost him dearly.

Eli bore down on Stiles’ chest. Agony drilled into his sternum. Stiles felt flayed, as though his ribs cracked wide open to let Eli caress the meat of his heart. Only the five cruel points of Eli's nails seemed to hold him together. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Sweat broke out all over skin stretched too tight, his muscles straining, useless. Stiles’ mouth dropped open, but his scream caught in his own throat.

“I’m going to crush your heart,” Eli breathed into his face. “Gonna turn it into powder inside your chest.” Eli began to clench his hand, nails still biting into Stiles’ flesh with every incremental movement. His heart spasmed, jerking and twitching wildly under the pressure.

“Then, I’m going to slaughter your pack.” Eli continued, pleasant. “I’m going to burn your Alpha alive.” Eli’s fingers slid another fraction of an inch closer. Stiles’ vision faded to spots, white and gold and red, red, red. “Gonna let Sally use your old man until he’s broken and bled out.”

“I’m gonna eat your spark,” Eli moved until his mouth touched the shell of Stiles’ ear. “And you can’t fucking stop me.”

Something tingled across his limited awareness, soft and determined. He sank into it, blinking his eyes against the empty white plane in his head. The pain followed, centered over his breastbone. Five black scratches caught his eye, each one a cracked, jagged line spreading across his skin. He’d become a broken china doll.

His wrists tickled again, faint, a feather tip across the paper thin skin. When he turned them over, his veins shimmered gold. One hand pulsed, clenched around something smooth.

He peeled his fingers back, until his hand cradled a tiny crimson sphere. Parts of it were darker than others, bruised black. He pulled his eyebrows down low, and prodded it with a finger. It jumped, settling into a rhythmic thrumming. 

Stiles raised it to his lips, and settled it on his tongue. As he rolled it in his mouth, the terrible, crushing weight on his chest eased. The molten river inching up his arms echoed the pulse. Behind his breastbone, the empty space wailed.

He closed his eyes and swallowed the heavy marble down. It settled inside his ribcage, forcing his blood along as his heart lay dormant.

“How’s that feel, Stiles? Knowing just how weak, how useless, you are.”

Stiles’ hand wrapped around Eli’s wrist. He opened his eyes, and smiled, blood trickling from the seam of his mouth. His free hand splayed across Eli’s chest, mirroring the other man’s movement as he mimicked the pressure around his own heart. 

Eli jerked back, his hand breaking contact with Stiles’ chest. Stiles sucked in a deep breath, ignoring his vertigo through sheer stubbornness. “Not today, asshole,” He wheezed around his stuttering pulse. “FYI - I learn fast,” he said, bringing his own hands up before his chest, palms facing together. 

The feeling of Eli’s magic wrapped inside him echoed in his head. He spread his fingers wide, curling them down as though cupping something between his palms. He pressed his hands together in slow stages. “Your turn, dude.”

Eli’s mouth dropped wide, his skin ashen. He scrabbled at his own chest as Stiles bore down. Slick warmth weighed down his hands, an echo of the fluttering muscle he held in his magic. 

All at once, Eli’s magic swirled to life, a thick diseased cloud. It rushed Stiles, knocking him flat onto his back, hard enough to jar his breath from his abused lungs. His grip on Eli’s heart fell away as he lay, dazed.

“That’s not possible,” Eli ground out, his voice ragged and broken. “The red spiral- you called on your Alpha’s power. That shouldn’t be possible until the first full moon after the bond!”

Stiles blinked. Red spiral? “I’m a quick study,” he gasped, rolling back up to his feet.

“You are a child!” Eli screamed. Every disjointed piece clicked into place, all at once.

“This was never about Derek, or the pack.” Stiles said, advancing on Eli. Lightening bloomed in his fists. "This wasn't about your crappy attempt at being a supernatural mob."

Eli flung a fist full of energy at him, something that felt like knives when Stiles shoved it away. “This was about me.” He stopped, panting. “Does your Alpha know you started a pack war to try and steal my power?”

Eli gave an ugly laugh. “Alex? He’s too hung up on proving he’s a bigger wolf than the last Hale Apha.” He shaped a fuzzy ball in one hand. “Now, me? I got caught on some sweet, defenseless thing-” He flung the sphere.

It caught Stiles in the hip, tore a hole through his jeans, and scored its way into the jut of bone. Stiles bit through his lip to keep his shout contained, one hand flying to cover the wound. The freezing cold not-burn sank into his thigh. It seeped into the marrow of his leg, leaving the limb completely numb. Blood met his fingers, and he swore.

“-All hooked into a Nemeton and ripe for the plucking, but too dumb to notice.”

Stiles, hunched over and gasping, tilted his head until he could see Eli’s sweaty face. He spread his free fingers out and down, recalling the cool, dry sensation of the earth underneath them. “I feel like you forgot something important, dude.” 

“That so.” Eli’s voice dripped mockery.

“Yep,” Stiles said, as he forced himself upright. He limped forward, letting a smirk tug at his mouth. “A magic tree picked me for a buddy. I’m grounded by a pack of fuckin’ werewolves.” He stopped, settling his weight on his good leg. “My learning curve is steep, man.”

Eli spread his hands, raising his eyebrows as though asking, “And?”

“I’ve got home field advantage.” With a twitch, he coaxed a root to unfurl until it stabbed up through the earth to twine around Eli’s ankle. “And you came after my family. Checkmate, motherfucker.”

It retreated in a hurry when Eli let loose a rush of his own power. 

Stiles curled his hands into fists and hauled upwards, muscles straining. The trees obliged. Fat, gnarled roots burst free in a shower of earth, the groans of the wood nearly covering Eli’s shout. They snaked their way around his body, holding his legs fast. He struggled wildly. 

“Welcome to my playground.” Stiles said, his arms splayed wide, a smirk curling his mouth.

“No,” Eli shrieked. “No, no, no!” 

Power blossomed around him, thick enough it looked black. As the writhing mass of bark crawled up his ribs, Eli hurled the noxious cloud free.

Stiles scrambled out of the way, on his hands and knees only to realize too late that the spell wasn’t aimed at him.

Swearing, Stiles whirled around, eyes wide, heart pounding. “No,” he breathed. Without thought, he bolted across the clearing, ducking and weaving between friend and foe. He wasn’t going to be fast enough, not with his leg slowing him down.

“Derek,” he gasped, as he nearly upended himself. “DEREK!”

Too far away, Derek’s head snapped up, towards Stiles. Time seemed to stand still as Stiles screamed, hand outstretched and sparking uselessly. 

Frozen, Stiles could see old blood across Derek's torso, and the slashes in his sweats. Stiles could see the angry, vicious slices down his face, too close to his eye. Stiles could see the wet, fresh crimson slicking his forearms and dripping from his claws.

The stuff caught Derek high in the chest and time caught up in a rush of sound. 

Derek’s spine bowed back. Thin, spidery lines arched out from the angry black thing burrowing its way inside Derek. The vines curved, snaking around his ribs, his shoulders, his throat, in long, messy arches.

Derek’s knees hit the dirt and Stiles’ felt something tear in his own throat from the force of his screams. He threw himself forward, sliding the last few feet to Derek’s side as Derek collapsed. Stiles caught him, hauling Derek’s taunt upper body into his lap.

Derek’s legs convulsed against the ground. Clawed hands pawed at his own throat, dug at his heaving chest. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief, as his mouth gaped wide. Fresh blood bloomed to join the flaking rivers of past wounds.

Stiles flattened his hands against Derek’s. He turned Derek’s hands, encouraged him to bury claws in Stiles’ shirt instead of his own skin. He ignored the way his hands ached as he ran his trembling fingers over Derek’s chest. 

Stiles dug at the cold, slimy stuff, growling as it slid right off his fingers.

“C’mon, Der, talk to me, babe, please-!”

He stopped, staring into Derek’s desperate, terrified eyes. Derek’s chest wasn’t heaving, it was spasming, compressing. “Oh my god, Derek,” he croaked, eyes wide in horror.

Derek’s ribs weren’t expanding. Stiles looked up, in time to catch Eli wrest his way free. The root systems were too weak to hold him without Stiles’ guidance. 

Derek couldn’t breathe. The spell froze the air in his lungs. He was going to suffocate. Derek was going to die. 

Stiles smoothed a hand over Derek’s heart. He eased him onto the ground and unfolded his own limbs until he stood tall. 

Later, he would thank Allison for the shower of arrows that kept the Cole Alpha - Alex - away from Derek. Later, he would compliment Lydia on her improved aim. Even later, Chris Argent would give him the most awkward hug of his life.

All he knew now were the strangled whines caught in Derek's throat. They overrode his father's hoarse shouts, and Erica's snarls as she stood over Boyd. Derek's claws scrabbling in the dirt drowned out Jackson's bellow at he leapt for Alex. Derek's limbs going lax cancelled out Scott and Isaac decimating the remaining wolves.

Stiles looked away. Instead, he filed away how the smirk shaped Eli's face, and how his mouth moved over words Stiles couldn't hear. 

Behind his eyes, Stiles focused on the strength of warm-gold-family. He held the quiet, cooling heat of ruby-home, with its ducked smiles and torn knuckles, close as it flickered.

New spots tinkled across his senses. Soft, watery, blue-safe-protect could only be his father. The scattering of lilac along the edge of the clearing left him uneasy. The color reminded him of wolfsbane, and black lines, and too pale skin.

Stiles wrapped his hands around the bouquet of gold stems. Slender fingers wove urgency into their cores, calling them to him. Howls penetrated the cotton silence in his head, close and angry. Defiant. Eli's cloying rot-fog-wrong marker jerked, and Stiles smiled. 

He brought a hand up to his mouth, and blew across his palm. Long, lithe curls formed between his fingers, razor sharp and hungry. A tiny flick of his wrist, and they buried themselves in Eli’s gut.

Another twitch of Stiles’ hand, and Eli staggered back. The slices over his stomach clawed up his torso. Eli’s mouth parted, his shouts lost to the emptiness ringing in Stiles’ ears. Stiles watched as Eli’s own energy flared up around his outstretched palms.

A smaller, dark spot moved into his line of sight. The interloper crouched, fangs bared.

Two furred shapes barreled past Stiles to intercept the new wolf. His magic told him without looking that Erica and Isaac had leapt to his defense. The other three spots, each a shining sun, ringed the soft cherry of their Alpha.

Their unconscious Alpha. 

Stiles blinked. Pain sang across one of the beta yellow threads in his head. His mouth thinned; that was unacceptable.

Beneath the wolf’s feet, roots woke, breaking free of their coils. They burst above ground, twining around the wolf’s legs, hips, and arms, pinning him in place. Stiles’ wolves fell back, stumbling over weak legs.

Stiles stepped around the captive wolf, running an idle hand over Isaac’s curls, up Erica’s spine. He gave another mental tug, shuffled them back to where garnet-snark-sad lay.

Rage contorted Eli's face. Magic flashed, thin red lines swirling through the pale fog clouding his eyes and hands. He shoved outward, releasing a wall of sheer power at Stiles.

It shredded to nothingness at a lazy flutter from Stiles' fingers.

Eli threw both hands in a wild gesture towards the writhing fire-trap that caged the pale-blue-home of John Stilinski. It rippled, once, twice, and fell inward.

Anything left of Stiles' sense of self vanished as the blue-calm-safe connection wavered.

All that remained in the endless crystal world in his head was the cruel, oily spill of his rival.

His hands reached out, long fingers clawed, slicing hard at the air. He bellowed, a wordless expulsion of fury and despair.

And the fire moved. As though alive, it bent to his will, slip-sliding away, curling into itself. Stiles thrust it down, down into the earth, until it burst into a pool of heat even greater than itself. Without a thought, Stiles snatched up that molten cloud, and pulled. It set his bones ablaze, and he screamed.

He pulled, and pulled, until the sheer heat of it hissed into the open air. Grass withered into ash as it hovered, shimmering.

He spun his hands, twisting it tighter together. With a shove, he cocooned wrong-cold-enemy inside it. Despite the agony in his own body, he held the essence of heat there until the black spot in his mind faded to nothing.

Then, he let it go. 

Bereft and alone, he reached out along the expanse of his mind.

The red-mine-protect-dying spot lay too still against the moonlight. Stiles dropped to his knees, and laid his hands against the sense of home. He thought of air, sweet and crisp. He thought heal, and the ribs under his shaking fingers sucked in a desperate lungful of air. 

Blue-badge-protect-pain was moving, unsteadily slithering close. Stiles turned, arm outstretched, and thought, heal. Blue flared, and fell to his knees, coughing. 

Gold fought and bled, violet wove in and out, neither friend nor foe and darkness fled. Again, Stiles thought, heal, and wounds closed. Stiles thought enough, and his trees moved. Branches and roots wrapped around the enemy, holding them in place. Stiles thought mine- and the pack crowded close, the Nemeton squeezed him tight.

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyebrows bunched together.

“Stiles, focus.”

Leather-garnet-slow-smiles slipped close, wrapped a hand around Stiles’ shining white self. Stiles wiggled free. 

Rather than allow the rebuff, the warmth overpowered him. It curled around him, pressing kisses into his throat. “Time to put the earth back where she belongs.”

Stiles didn't understand. His hands clenched over empty air.

“Time to come back, Stiles. Open your eyes.”

But Stiles’ eyes were open.

“No. Your real eyes. Let me see your real eyes, Stiles. I need you to let the magic go, okay?”

Stiles eyes fluttered as the soft voice kept murmuring to him. His vision spiraled, wavering between not enough light and too much. Derek’s face was half hidden in shadows, but the sense of him slithered in and out of Stiles’ head. 

Hands, big, broad hands, slid along his jaw. “Focus on me. I’m right here. You can feel this, yeah?”

Stiles nodded, eyes slipping shut.

“Good. Can you help me?”

Derek prodded him to turn his attention somewhere inside. In the back of his mind, the land whispered. He shivered against the disquiet, the sadness drifting from the the trees who’d answered his need.

“They need to go back, Stiles. Can you do that for me? Can you let them go?”

Wetness trickled down his face as he soothed the land’s distress. Slowly, the evergreen fire in his veins dimmed. The air filled with cracks and groans. 

His senses were all skewed, wrong. His head spun, and his stomach tried to climb into his mouth. Everything hurt. Stiles tried to nuzzle into the hands on his face. He didn't think he could stand.

“You in there, kiddo?”

“Dad?” Stiles tried to ask around his thick tongue. He tried to turn towards Dad’s voice, but black spots swirled on the inside of his lids. Blood roared in his ears, and he crumpled into blissful unconsciousness.  
+++

“-you’ve got him?”

“Yeah. He won't shock me like that.”

“Sheriff, why don't you come help me and Chris?”  
++ 

Stiles drifted with the tide. In and out, a constant metronome in his head. It soothed him, the constant, glacial flow of energy that echoed in his marrow, like a lullaby.

“ - safe right now. He’s unconscious and still somehow connected, there’s no way for him to discern friend from foe. He could pull this building down because of a bad dream.” 

“Wrong. I can feel him, still. He's fine.”

Blunt fingers trailed through his hair, gentle and hesitant.  
++

“It was pretty badass, though. I mean, did you see how lit up he was? Like, glowing, dude. And he hardly even moved at all! That’s some X-men stuff, right there.”

“Scott, no.”

“What? I’m just saying! His eyes were leaking fire, oh my god. Why didn’t he do that in the first place?”

“The point was to stall, remember? We needed you and the rest of the pack.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”  
++

“You realize you’re trying to take a kaleidoscope and make it fit your shape, right? It’s never gonna happen.”

Familiar, irritated tones called him to the surface. He tried to turn his head towards his Dad’s voice. His body was heavy, distant and unresponsive. He groaned, drowning out Deaton’s reply.

“Guys, I think he’s awake?” And there was Scott, his whisper-scream way too close for comfort.

Stiles flinched away, his eyes rolling and fluttering as he fought to open them. He flopped out a limp hand, to bat Scott away. Someone caught it, pressed it against something firm and alive. Another pulse lived inside it, faster than the fading one in his head, but still slow and steady. Deliberate.

“Shhh, Sco’. Shhh.” Stiles mumbled. “Ow.”

“Go back to sleep, Stiles.” The voice was soft and sweet. Stiles’ fingers twitched, hooking into the fabric underneath.

“Oh, and don’t think we won't be having a chat about that little development either, Derek.” Dad’s voice wasn’t annoyed anymore, but Stiles wasn’t coherent enough to place the tone.

Derek’s breath sighed out from under Stiles’ palm. Stiles knew that minute, resigned huff. He hated it. Dad shouldn’t make things worse for Derek, even if Derek could be a dick. Derek tried so hard. Derek thought Stiles was enough, but didn’t have anyone to tell him the same.

“Da’?” Stiles said, getting one eye open. “Daaaaaad?” Keeping it focused proved impossible. He let it slip shut again.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Be ni’, Dad. Nice. ‘Kay? ‘S a, a sad puppy. Needs nice things. Like... hugs.”

Laughter. “Yeah, okay, son. I’ll be nice to your sad puppy.”

Sleep claimed him, but not before Scott’s delighted, “Dude, I am never ever letting that go. Ever.”  
+++

Consciousness sucked. 

Someone had tied his nerves into knots. Jackhammers pounded at his temples. He tried to swallow and gagged against the sawdust coating his throat. In a brilliant move, Stiles tried to roll over.

He stilled immediately, but even that minor movement set of a series of muscle spasms. Inside his left hip clenched, violent enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Hands flexing in the sheets, Stiles ran through breathing exercises he hadn’t used in years. Focused on one muscle at a time, he willed his body to relax.

Once he went limp against his sheets, he forced his leaking eyes open. They were dry enough to start another round of tears, making it impossible to see. He closed them, rolling them around in their sockets between bouts of easing his lids up. After the third attempt, he could focus.

Stiles lay on his back in his own bed. Presumably, his father had hauled him up the stairs and bundled him into his covers. He couldn’t see Scott running his hands down Stiles’ body to mold the sheets around his frame.

No one had tucked him in in years. The thought was bittersweet. He’d never been able to bring himself to ask Dad to do it after his Mom died. Even though he knew the fabric kept his restlessness at bay overnight, it hadn’t seemed worth the trouble.

He focused on the moonlight trailing across his ceiling. The faint silver stream managed to make his eyes water all over again. What in the world had he done to himself this time, he wondered. 

Maybe he had a hangover. He couldn’t remember. If it was a hangover, he thought wryly, he wasn’t ever going to drink again. It hurt too much to be worth the buzz. 

Plus, his mouth was bone dry and disgusting. He must have managed to drink enough to dehydrate himself. So, water. And food, if he could keep it down. A shower was definitely a good idea, too, since his skin felt clammy and gross. And dear God, did he have to pee. Which meant he had to actually get up. Hurray.

Bracing himself for the pain, Stiles eased himself upright. Halfway up, he noticed a pair of black boots, crossed at the ankles, propped up on his bed. He swallowed hard, throat clicking.

There was no way he could mistake those shoes. The curve of a calf led into thighs the size of small trees. He sucked his lips between his teeth and worried at them. 

It was possible he was too familiar with Derek’s body. Especially considering he’d never actually touched Derek. He should… probably stop staring.

What was Derek doing in his room in the first place? Had Derek found him somewhere, drunk off his ass and hauled him back home? He hoped not. Stiles might like arguing with him, but having Derek actually mad at him was always awful.

But when Stiles finally managed to look, Derek was out cold. He sat in the computer chair, slumped enough to let his head rest between his own shoulder and the back of the chair. His arms, crossed over his chest, rose and fell with his slow, steady breaths.

Sleep relaxed his face, his mouth parted over his bunny teeth. The lines usually framing his mouth had vanished. Even the area around his eyes was smooth, erasing his typical hunted expression. Lack of product left his hair in a soft, fluffy mess. Derek looked young, vulnerable. Real. It stole Stiles’ breath.

After a minute, Stiles realized he was still staring. He shook his head to clear it and regretted the movement immediately.

Vision swimming, he collapsed back into the mattress. Trembling hands pressed to his temples, he let out a gasping whine. The bed rolled underneath him.

“Stiles?” Derek rasped, his voice slow with sleep. “What is it?” His feet thumped to the floor.

Stiles whimpered against the sound. Despite his body’s protests, he curled into himself. A hand landed on his hip, startling a cry from his throat. 

“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry, shhh,” Derek murmured. “Here, let me…” Fingertips trailed up Stiles’ side until they could wrap around the exposed skin of his bicep. A second hand settled onto the bed, hesitant. It inched its way closer until Derek could bury his hand in Stiles’ hair.

Numbness radiated out from those hands, the absence of pain stark. It left him floating pleasantly, nearly high off the change. Stiles went limp in Derek’s hands, letting out pleased groans when the fingers in his hair moved to massage his scalp. 

“Magic hands,” Stiles mumbled.

Derek snorted. “I’m not the one with magic hands. And I don’t take quarters, either.”

Stiles blinked up at him, confused. “What?”

“Never mind,” came the soft reply. “I take it you feel better?”

Rather than answer, Stiles hummed happily, his body lax against the bed. Derek chuckled.

“What happened, anyway?” Stiles asked, eyes on the way Derek chewed part of his lip. “What’d I do to warrant an Alpha sleepover?” He grabbed Derek’s arms, eyes going wide as he rushed to add, “Not that it’s a bad thing! Or that you should stop. Mi casa es su casa, especially when it means you do the pain sucky thing. Because oh my God, this is the best. You are the best wolf ever, okay, best Alpha, gold star, dear God don’t stop. I’m- I’m going to shut up now.”

Stiles snapped his jaw shut, warmth staining his cheeks. 

Derek ducked his head to hide a smile. Stiles caught it anyway, since his position on the bed meant he was beneath Derek. Not that Stiles was thinking about that. At all. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Uh. No? Would I have asked if I knew?” Stiles let his confusion show on his face. “I remember coming home to make dinner and…” He shot upright, kicking against the mess of blankets. 

“Dad!” The sheets caught around his legs. He wobbled and fell sideways in an awkward splay of limbs.

Derek caught him, sliding from the chair to haul him back up onto the bed. “Your dad’s fine. He’s downstairs.” He settled onto the bed next to Stiles, half turned to face him.

“Right, yeah.” Stiles dug a hand through his hair. “I remember Scott showed up, you tried to go all Alpha… wait. Oh. Oh my God. You kissed me.” Stiles murmured, one hand tracing over his own mouth. He looked up and flushed all over again at the blush inching out of Derek’s beard.

Never one for words where action would do, Derek leaned over and eased his mouth over Stiles’, a ghost of a kiss. Derek pulled back, smirking at Stiles’ glazed expression.

“Oh,” Stiles breathed. He cleared his throat and ran a hand down his face. “I don't… oh, fuck, Derek!” Stiles reared back, as the rest of the night flooded into his memory. 

He ended up half in Derek’s lap, running frantic hands over his torso. “You weren’t breathing, oh God-”

Derek caught his hands and pressed them down onto his ribs as he took an exaggerated breath. “I’m fine, now. I’m okay.”

Stiles nodded, dazed. He left his hands on Derek’s chest for another minute as he thought.

“The fire,” he breathed, heart beating skyrocketing a third time. “The fire collapsed on top of Dad and then I couldn’t feel him anymore and-.”

Arms curled around his back, settling him more firmly against Derek. “He’s fine, Stiles, John’s downstairs, I promise.” After Stiles’ pulse evened back out Derek said, “Do you remember anything after that?”

“I…” Stiles let his eyes go unfocused. “I remember freaking out, but that’s about it. No specifics. Just… a lot of white. And it was quiet. I think - you carried me out, right? And took me to Deaton’s. I was in and out, for a while, there. I remember Dad yelling at someone.” He blinked, took in his room all over again. “How’d I get here?”

“Deaton wanted to ward you, cut you off from your spark- at least until you woke up. John… didn’t like that, so we brought you home.”

“I don't know where to start with that,” Stiles responded, off-kilter. He plucked mindlessly at Derek’s shirt. “With any of this. I can’t process anything about tonight.”

“Tonight?” Derek asked, his eyebrows pulling low over his frown. “Stiles, you’ve been unconscious almost an entire day.” He slid Stiles off his lap, eyes dancing across Stiles’ face. “It’s not the same night.” 

Stiles gaped at him.

Derek sighed. “Near as we can tell, you managed to hook yourself right into the Nemeton. You completely checked out on us, did things Deaton says shouldn’t have been possible.” Derek looked away, his hands flexing on his thighs. “Christ, you were still glowing when we got to Deaton.” 

“That- I… what?” He asked helplessly, hands fluttering. “What?”

“You overdid it.” Derek rubbed a hand down his face. He sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Tell you what,” he said. “Go let John know you’re awake. Shower. Eat, go back to bed. Whenever you’re ready to talk, you come find me. I mean it, Stiles.” Derek studied him, intent. “There’s a lot of stuff about last night we need to talk about. Okay?”

Stiles gave a jerky nod. “Yeah. Okay. But, um.” He bit his lip, dropping his gaze to his knees and scratching at the back of his neck. “Stay? Here. With me?” He looked up at Derek through his lashes. “No pressure, I-.” 

“Yeah, I can stay. Go let your Dad know you’re alive.” Derek stood, and turned to guide the chair back to its place by the desk. “Unless you want help moving around? Just because I took the pain doesn’t mean your body’s recovered.” Derek turned back to Stiles, his brows raised. 

Stiles levered himself upright, slow and careful. “Nah,” he said, shuffling towards the door. “I’ll try not to die while taking a piss.”

Derek snorted. “More worried about the stairs, actually.”

“Cute,” Stiles mumbled. He hesitated by the door, tongue wetting his cracked lips. “Hey Der? Thanks. For… pulling me back.” 

He eased himself out into the hall before Derek could respond, closing the door behind him. Derek could hear his rapid pulse anywhere in the house, but it made Stiles feel less exposed.

Once he’d taken care of his bladder and gulped straight from the tap, Stiles stripped down for a shower. Even though Derek had taken the aches and nausea, Stiles had to prop himself up against the shower wall. Hot water sluiced down his back, flattening his hair. The steam sank into his body, loosening knots he hadn’t noticed.

He slid down under the spray, arms around his knees, his head bowed as he tried to keep his mind blank.  
+++

Fresh clothes on the sink meant Derek must have snuck in at some point. His father wouldn't have been able to leave without checking on him. Not, Stiles realized, that Derek needed words to do that. He snorted as he toweled dry.

Unfortunately, that also meant he managed to catch sight of himself in the mirror. For someone who’d slept for something like twenty four hours, he sure looked like a walking corpse. His eyes were huge in his bone white face, complete with purple bruises underneath and raw, split lips. 

Stiles looked away. The tremors in his hands turned getting dressed into an Olympic event. Derek had dug out his softest shirt and drawstring sweats, which he was grateful for. The fabric settled comfortably around him, though the lack of underwear made him snicker. He’d have to remember to give Derek crap later. Big bad wolf, afraid of going through his boxers.

By the time he made it to the head of the stairs, Derek’s fancy werewolf magic seemed to flag. The soreness seemed far away, slow as it seeped back into his frame, but the dull pounding in his spine meant it was only a matter of time. 

He muttered under his breath, irritated at the way his body acted as though it were ninety and riddled with arthritis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to plant both feet on a stair before attempting the next one. 

“Stiles?”

He looked up, two steps from the bottom, to find his father hovering, hands out as if to catch him. “Dad,” he croaked. Impulsively, he tumbled forward, straight into his father’s arms. 

He clutched John’s old, ugly green sweater in his shaking fingers, gasping in the mix of gun oil and Old Spice. Those two things had meant comfort and safety for longer than he could remember. Eli had almost taken that from him, forever.

Dad grunted as he took the brunt of Stiles’ weight, staggered back into the wall. It wasn’t long before he let them slump to the floor, legs akimbo. Stiles did his best to bury himself in his father’s lap. “You know, you’re not five anymore.” Dad mumbled into Stiles’ hair, as he tucked Stiles’ face in against the hollow of his throat. “You’re a lot harder to catch these days.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice muffled and wobbly. “But you always do.”

Something warm and wet dropped onto the back of Stiles’ neck. Dad’s arms wrapped even tighter around Stiles’ body. “‘Course I do, kiddo. Of course I do.”

Once both men had caught their breath, Stiles eased himself away, scrubbing at his face. His father helped him upright and ushered him to the couch before he vanished into the kitchen. 

From the mess on the coffee table, Dad had been pouring over old case files again. Stiles wasn’t surprised. Looking at unsolved cases had John’s form of meditation for years. An empty tumbler completed the scene, as usual. The chessboard, though, didn’t fit at all.

It sat on the far edge of the table, separate from the clutter. The board had been set, white closest to the couch, but the pieces remained untouched. Stiles frowned at it. 

Dad bustled back in, sweeping the files into a box from under the table. He left it on his chair and wandered back out. Next, he settled a steaming mug and a plate on the empty spot before Stiles. Dad reorganized the files, movements quick and sure before storing the box away.

Stiles, for his part, investigated his prizes - hot chocolate and peanut buttered toast.

“I don’t know how well you’ll handle that,” John said when Stiles gulped from his mug. “So try not to cram it all in your face too fast.” He dropped into his armchair with a groan.

Stiles inhaled it all, ignoring how his Dad shook his head. Once he pushed the plate away, his Dad leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re okay?”

Stiles shrugged. “ ’m good.”

“Uh huh.” John jutted his jaw to the side while he eyed Stiles. Stiles ducked his head, scratching at the back of his neck.

After a beat of silence, Stiles dragged his hand through his hair. “I don’t, um. I can’t remember some of it. I, ah. Think I went too deep or something.” 

John snorted, ignoring the glare Stiles leveled at him. “Or something, yeah. You scared the shit out of me, is what you did.” John scrubbed at his face, before sitting back and crossing his arms. “How much do you remember?”

Stiles worried at his lower lip for a moment. “I’m good right up ‘til Derek got hurt. And I know they went after you next, but then it’s, it’s all…” he gestured towards his head. “Snow.”

“It's all snow?”

“Yeah, you know, static on a television set. White and empty and dead, but not really?”

Dad paused to consider that for a minute. “Okay,” he said, drawing the word out. “Did Derek clear that up for you or do you need me to try and fill in the pieces?”

Stiles made a startled, confused noise.

“Son, he picked you up in the woods and got all flashy-eyed every time anyone other than me got too close. He held you in his lap on to drive to Deaton’s, and again on the way here. The man carried you up to your bed, helped me change you into clean clothes-.“ John snorted at Stiles’ full body flail. “He tucked you in, and hasn’t left your side since. He’s not exactly trying for subtlety, and I’m not actually an idiot.”

When Stiles pointed out that Derek could still hear him, John only smiled. Stiles changed tactics. “But yeah, if you could give me the highlights, I’d appreciate it.”

Dad nodded. “To be frank, I’m not a hundred percent on everything either. From what I could see, their Emissary hit Derek in the chest with something. Whatever it was took Derek down hard. You were already doing the eye thing,” John pointed to his own eyes. “But you started to glow about then. Now, I've had to piece together the basics from the others, okay? So this might not be very reliable."

Stiles made a face, gesturing for John to continue.

John sighed. "Once the fire fell in on me, you managed to use the nearby flora to keep the other pack from hurting anyone else. You ...did something to their Emissary. And you healed everyone.”

“I what now?”

“The trees,” John said, voice dry. “You used the damn trees to catch people and stop them from running. Chris and his hunters had a hell of a time getting them lose, let me tell you.” John slanted a smirk towards Stiles. “Derek had to sweet talk you into letting them go, and then he had to convince you to put the trees back.” He shook his head. “This is my life, now. Supernatural Whose Line Is It Anyway.”

Stiles gaped at John. He seemed to be doing that often, lately.

“And everyone’s injuries vanished - I had burns, and they smoothed out like nothing.” John slid his hand palm down through the air, as though petting an invisible cat. “We think you managed to heal yourself, too, since we couldn’t find anything physically wrong with you.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, running his hands through his hair for a minute. “But… you said I did something?” Stiles swallowed. “I killed him, didn’t I?” 

In the sudden quiet, Stiles could hear the blood rushing through his ears. “Dad?”

Instead of answering, John got up and walked around to the couch until he could drop into the spot next to Stiles. He gathered his son close, tucking Stiles’ head under his chin. “Yeah, kid. He’s dead.” 

Stiles swallowed. Voice hoarse, he said, “Is it… I murdered someone, Dad. I think I’m more upset knowing I’m capable of that than I am about knowing I did it.” He made a strange noise, body trembling. “God, Dad, he hurt you. He hurt Derek. I don’t…”

John held him tighter. “I can’t say that it’s a bad thing,” John responded, quiet and fierce. “You protected us. You protected yourself. That’s all that’s important right now. They gave you no choice, and you protected yourself.” John continued, mumbling reassurances until Stiles’ shaking eased.

“You know,” John started, “when you first explained the whole supernatural thing to me - poorly, by the way, - you gave the impression that you weren’t even on the board. I thought you were on the sidelines, the guy with all the research and the strategies. I figured it was the safest place for you to be, right? The brains instead of the brawn.” He smoothed a hand through Stiles’ wild locks.

“But you kept ending up right in the middle of it all. It never sat well with me. You’re my kid, and there you were - always getting hurt. Always in situations I couldn't do anything about. But then the whole magic thing came to light, and I thought, okay. At least now you’ll have something extra to protect yourself with, a leg up on the average human kid. So, maybe you were on the board. A knight, maybe, since you’re always on a different page than the rest of them. Or a rook, since you always end up pulling some weird move with Derek.”

Stiles pulled himself away from his Dad. He turned, settling himself deep into the corner of the couch. He drew his legs up in front of himself until he could rest his chin on his knees. Eyes on John, he wrapped his arms around his shins.

John’s forehead creased as he eyed the chessboard. He leaned over and pulled it closer to where they sat, pressing his mouth into a thin line. When he spoke next, it was in a quiet, even voice.

“But you’re not, are you? And from where I sit, you don’t even see it.” John turned back to his son. “Do you?”

“Dad, I have literally no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

John’s eyes were intent on Stiles’ face. “You run circles around the rest of them. You connect pieces that shouldn’t work, you know where to put people to get the most out of them. Who let Chris know about the other pack, Stiles? It sure as hell wasn’t Derek or Scott.”

Stiles ducked his head, hiding his face against his knees. “I called Chris as soon as I realized they had you. We have a treaty, and you’re human - if the hunters can take out the bad guys, why not let them?”

“My point, exactly, “John murmured. Stiles lifted his head, and squinted at his father.

“Add into that how loyal you are - you’ll do anything for your people, Stiles, and you know it. Speaking of which…” John scooped something up from the board. “You’ve always gone above and beyond rationality for Derek Hale. Haven’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, thankfully, since Stiles didn’t know how to respond. He shrugged, pulling his chin back onto his knees.

John waggled the white King at Stiles. “As much as it kills me to admit it, it’s exactly what he needs from you. Because the King? He’s bound by his own position. All the rules, and expectations, the need to protect and defend. He’s so strong, and completely hobbled by it.”

Stiles’ face creased into lines of confusion. “Dad,” he said voice wavering as he unfolded from his corner. “I don’t - what are you saying?”

The white King ended up settled on the table in front of Stiles, next to his empty mug. Stiles stared at it, bemused. His attention jerked back to his father when John cleared his throat.

Cradled between his thick fingers, John presented the white Queen piece to Stiles. 

Stiles’ eyes flew wide and his mouth dropped open. His heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs and his fingers curled into the meat of his palms. “Dad, no. I’m not, I don’t, that’s not - no, Dad.” He pressed his fists against his mouth.

John arched his eyebrows and tilted his head. A breath later, and he shifted, rolling the delicate Queen between his fingertips.

“I’m a cop. The Sheriff. In the eyes of the rest of the world, I am the law personified. On the regular chessboard of normal human life, I’m a King.” John shook his head, and rolled his lips between his teeth for a second. “But your mom?” He huffed out a breath.

Stiles sat up straight, fists dropping to his lap, attention riveted on his father.

“Not so much, your mother. Wasn’t a rule she didn’t enjoy breaking. That’s where you get it from, you know? That whole, ’You have to know the rules before you break them,’ nonsense. That’s her, through and through. Drove me nuts when you were a kid.”

“She did things that I never could, because my hands are always, always tied. I have to follow the rules. I have to be an example. And, God.” Dad stopped to rub a hand over his mouth, eyes lost in the distance. 

“I was so proud of her, and how she never backed down from what she felt was right. How she never let anyone else’s rules control her. People used to ask me how I married a woman like her when I had a badge.” Dad shook his head, the barest smile curving his mouth.

“But in reality, I never understood how she handled the way I limited myself.” Dad stopped. He swallowed again, cleared his throat. “Your mom was the Queen.”

He turned back to Stiles. “The Alpha’s the same as being Sheriff. He’s the rule keeper, and if he’s a good one, then he's more bound by those rules than anyone else. And on paper, he’s the strongest, most valuable player. But you, kid?”

John held out the Queen, waiting until Stiles wrapped his long fingers around it. In the lull, Stiles ran shaking fingertips down the smooth curves of the chess piece. When Dad sat back with a sigh, Stiles raised his wide eyes to his father. 

“You are the Queen of the Hale pack chessboard, Stiles. People underestimate you, or undervalue you, but the strongest player on the scene is you. Not Derek.” Stiles dropped his eyes back to the Queen, but Dad carried on.

“You’ve got the smarts, and the intuition. You’re the one who can see five steps ahead in five different directions. You allow yourself emotions but don’t let emotions rule you. Usually, anyway. That’s why you’re the one to do things like call in Chris Argent and his crew to back you up. You pull everyone’s ass out of the fire. Sometimes more literally than I’d like.”

He leaned forward, putting his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and squeezing. When Stiles looked up, his felt raw, vulnerable. His parted lips trembled. He blinked, tears trailing down the apple of his cheeks. 

“The Queen is the most valuable part of the board because she has the most options open to her. Yes, she still has rules, but they are her own rules. She’s tenacious and unrelenting and yet she’s overlooked by most of the world because she’s not the King.”

John let one hand drop. With the other, he gently gathered the moisture from under Stiles’ eyes. 

“The chess thing might’ve gotten away from me a little bit there, but I need you to know how important you are. You have this unique ability, and you use it to help people, to take care of people. And that it terrifies me to no end, but I’m so fucking proud of you, Stiles.”

All at once, Stiles launched himself at his father. He wrapped his arms around his Dad’s chest, mashing his face against the soft material of his sweater. One hand clutched at the Queen. Dad returned the gesture, gathering Stiles up to his chest as best he could. 

Eventually, the soreness bloomed back into a bone-deep ache. Dad helped Stiles to stand, and proceeded to hover behind him as he inched his way back up the stairs to his room. Outside his door, Dad stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve already talked to Derek about this, but, ah.” Dad blew out a breath. “To finish killing our terrible metaphor, the board is strongest when the King and Queen...”

Stiles gave a horrified squeal, hands flying forward as though his outstretched palms could ward his father off. “Dad, please God, don’t.”

Dad cracked a smile. “Let me have my fun, son.” His eyes slid over Stiles’ shoulder and the smile morphed into a wicked smirk. “Either way, you two do wonders for each other when you’re not going out of your way to pull pigtails. I’m not thrilled about the age difference, but I know life made it so you aren’t exactly a normal seventeen year old. Derek’s a bit of a special case himself. And I know that he’ll be more responsible and respectful of your age than you will, Stiles.” 

Over Stiles’ mortified stutters, John continued, “In the interest of everyone’s safety and happiness, just... promise me you’ll look out for each other. And keep it PG until he’s legal. Because the age of consent is still a thing I have to follow.”

“Always, Sheriff.” Derek answered. Stiles squeaked, but his Dad’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from flailing around.

“Good. Also, you hurt my son, and I’ll have zero problems pulling out those fancy bullets Chris gave me. Goodnight, boys.” Dad waved over his shoulder as he made his way into his own bedroom. 

He paused and turned back. “Oh, and Stiles, make sure your sad puppy stays for breakfast. We’re having bacon to make up for my trauma. Real bacon. All of it.”

Stiles spluttered at his retreating back. “My sad what?!”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.” Derek murmured behind him. “Scott’s been having a field day. All the things you could’ve called me, and you come out with ‘sad puppy.’”

Stiles turned, indignant. But Derek leaned against the doorway, Stiles’ loosest sweats clinging to the curve of his hips, a wide smile splitting his face. It stalled his brain. 

Derek slipped an arm around Stiles’ waist and shuffled him into the room. Closing the door behind them, Derek urged Stiles into the bed. He climbed in next, using his body to press Stiles closer to the wall, deaf to Stiles’ grumbling.

Stiles sighed when Derek’s hands slipped under his shirt, resting on his ribs to leech the pain away all over again. He relaxed into the mattress, one hand tangled in Derek's shirt. Derek seemed to pull his consciousness away with the pain, and Stiles slept.  
+++

When he woke later, the sun was high in the sky and he’d shifted onto his side. At some point, his shirt had rucked up. Derek’s face pressed into his back, with one arm thrown over his bared waist and a leg threaded between Stiles’ thighs. Stiles smiled. He wove one hand through the lax fingers hanging over his belly button. It was definitely one of the better ways he’d ever woken up.

Derek’s fingers squeezed Stiles’. Stiles had to bite his lip against a giggle as Derek stretched, and rubbed his nose against Stiles’ spine. Stiles tried to roll over, but Derek gave an adorable little sound of protest. Instead, Derek gathered him tighter against his chest.

“I owe you an apology,” Derek’s lips caught against Stiles’ shoulder. “None of this would have happened if I’d…” he made a frustrated noise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had no idea that was how you felt.”

Stiles licked his lips. “Are we using our words now?”

Derek sighed, and pulled away.

“No, I mean it,” Stiles said, rolling over to face him. “We’re talking about this?” His fingers plucked at the mattress as he took in Derek's sleep-mussed hair and half lidded eyes.

“If you want to,” Derek murmured. “We don’t have to. I just wanted to apologize.”

Stiles dragged his gaze from Derek’s puffed mouth. “No, no I think we should try. To talk about it. Because I’m so lost, you have no idea.” Stiles reached out with a tentative hand and touched Derek’s lower lip. “You’ve been treating me like you can’t wait for me to fuck off somewhere, and suddenly you’re using me as a teddy bear?” He flicked his free fingers against the mattress. “Not that I mind,” he added.

Derek pressed a kiss against Stiles’ finger before pushing it away. “I never meant to make you think that. I just. I’m-.” He ran a hand down his face and dropped his eyes. 

“I thought keeping my distance would be the best thing to do, to let you make your choices. You’re so young and it’s- it’s very important. To me. That you have the ability to do that. And I shouldn’t have said that before, about being pack. I know you’ve always thought of the pack as family.”

“Yeah,” Stiles drawled. “You shouldn't have accused me of wanting to ditch you for a prettier prom date, either.”

When Derek flinched, Stiles reached out again, slipping his fingers between Derek’s. “Stop blaming yourself for everything, man. I shouldn’t have freaked and gone out on my own.” He squeezed Derek’s hand. “I get that you have issues. Trust me, I do. And I’ve got my own baggage. So. There’s that.” 

“Yeah,” Derek murmured. “There’s definitely that.” He extracted his hand from Stiles’ grip, shifting upright. 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles wound himself around Derek’s waist, draping himself over Derek’s lap in the process. “Where’re you going?”

“I thought -” Derek said, sounding lost.

“I’m not kicking you out dude, hell no. We’re going to discuss this like the mature adults we are not and we’re going to make it work. Plus, breakfast. Awkward Dad breakfast, you are not making me suffer through that alone.”

“Yeah?”

“I just said it, didn’t I? Explain things to me, O mighty Alpha mine.”

Derek’s breath hitched.

“Like that, didja?” Stiles said, smug. He yelped when Derek flicked his ear.

“There really isn’t much to explain,” Derek started, slow. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel unwelcome, or make you believe I didn’t think you were good enough.” He sighed again, hunching in on himself. “You know about Kate. It’s… I needed you to know you had options, that you had other choices. Other lives you could have.”

Stiles’ heart tripped in his chest. “You know, that might have worked better if I’d know any of this was on the menu in the first place.”

Derek grunted his assent. “It was easier, for me, to keep my distance if I never let you get close in the first place. If that makes sense.” He shifted away, settling back against the wall. “And if I kept away, then I - I couldn’t influence you.” Derek dragged a hand over the lower half of his face. He turn his head away. “I can’t ruin you, Stiles.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, soft and unsure as he settled his weight against Derek’s side. “You’re not Kate. The way you worry about me just proves how much you can’t ever be like her.”

Derek gave a stiff nod.

Stiles counted his heartbeats. When he reached fifty he said, “I guess, in a backwards way, what you said makes sense.”

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “Easier for you to resist gettin’ all up in this hotness if you didn’t look at the hotness.” He laughed when Derek shoved him back down into the pillows.

Derek followed, crawling over Stiles to press him down into the mattress with his own weight. He gave a slow, cocky smile when Stiles’ breath stuttered.

The smile faded. “I’m no good at this,” Derek murmured, eyes flicking over Stiles’ flushed face. “But keeping my distance didn’t work, and I can’t- I won't risk you feeling like you don’t matter again.” He leaned down, mouth brushing against Stiles’ parted lips.

“Wait, wait,” Stiles breathed, pushing at Derek’s shoulders. Derek eased away, his face shy and worried. For a beat, Stiles could only stare. He shook himself.

“Last time, there was the whole magic thing, right? When you kissed me?”

Derek's face cleared. “That’s not going to happen every time.”

“What, is that like, how every Emissary bonds with an Alpha?” Stiles couldn't keep the scandalized tone out of his voice. “Because Deaton -”

Derek’s giant palm clapped over Stiles’ mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. That was my Mother,” Derek hissed, horrified. Stiles cackled.

“No, that’s not a typical Emissary bonding. No kissing needed,” Derek shot Stiles a disgusted look, which set him off all over again. “You’ve always been pack, but I can feel you differently in my head now. To be honest, I don’t actually know what we did. And we probably won’t until your magic recovers.”

Stiles hummed, letting Derek settle back onto him. “So,” he said to the ceiling, soft and hesitant. “You do think I’m good enough. And, for the record, you want to date me? Like, for real.”

Hot, moist air tickled his neck as Derek buried his face in the curve of Stiles’ shoulder. “I think you’re amazing,” he said, his quiet voice broken and raw. “And if you let me, I’d keep you forever.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”

Derek shifted, until he could look Stiles in the eye. “Yeah, Stiles. I’m going to do my best to prove it to you, if you want me to.”

Stiles swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded, gaze locked on Derek’s face.

Slow enough to let Stiles changed his mind, Derek lowered his head until he could catch Stiles’ mouth in a kiss.

Heat jolted through Stiles, clenching low in his belly. He let out a muffled whine and buried his hands in Derek’s hair. Derek’s beard grazed the skin around his mouth, sending spikes of warmth through his gut. A tongue traced the seam of his mouth and Stiles opened for him, melting into the mattress and reveling in the sensations. 

After a moment, Derek pulled away, his mouth slick and swollen. He grinned down at Stiles’ attempts to drag him back.

Stiles couldn’t hold back an answering smile. Then, because he couldn’t help himself he said, “So... does this make me Pack Mom? Or Stepdad?”

Derek collapsed onto his side, burying his head in the curve of Stiles’ neck and laughing. “Well,” he wheezed, “Your Dad did say you’re the Queen, so, technically…” 

He dissolved into soundless giggles, shoulders shaking as Stiles squawked and shoved at his face. 

Stiles sat up suddenly. “Wait, do I get a tiara? Derek! I want a tiara. I can totally pull off a tiara. Ooh, can I make the puppies do chores now? Derek, stop laughing, this is important!”

Derek reached up and caught Stiles by the back of the neck, pulling him down. “Anything you want,” he murmured, before kissing the air from Stiles’s lungs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you could take a second and drop me a line and let me know what you think, I would be ridiculously happy.


End file.
